I Was A Rape Victim, and I Didn't Know It. This Is My Story.

I've been debating writing this post for a while. I think the why of it will become clear as you read on. But a couple of posts that have recently made K&P made me think that maybe my experience could help someone else.

So.
I was raped in college.

This is what happened:
I had a boyfriend whom I will now refer to as Slink. Slink was a rather shady character: charming, beguiling, but deep-down dangerous. He would manipulate me, control me in ways that rang my WARNING bells from the beginning…but that was part of the excitement. He liked to control me, but I needed the control.
I had not yet learned how to differentiate between "good" control and "bad" control.
He was a Bad Boy, and I was the girl who liked the danger. As many young women do, I romanticized it. (I stopped doing that shit a long time ago…but I understand why so many women do that. The danger is what's so fucking enticing and addictive.)

Slink and I were already having sex, but we had to be sneaky about it—quick fucks in dark corners and secret rendezvous, like a scandalous game of cloak-and-daggers. He was rough and forceful, always just on the cusp of turning violent. His aggression only added to my captivation. I was a little bit afraid of him, but I needed that fear, and he never went over the edge.
He never did, until he did.

He brought up the subject of anal sex. I was too embarrassed to tell him I was already well familiar having fun with that area of my body, but I replied with an enthusiastic yes: I was willing to try it, absolutely.

We met in his dorm room. I stayed after curfew started.
This becomes important later.
We got naked; did all the foreplay stuff. It was actually sweet for a while, because he didn't usually do all the lovey-dovey things I thought of as foreplay. He kissed me, caressed my body, and I felt good; I felt special that a Bad Boy like him would show me this side of him.
Then he flipped me over on my hands and knees and started pushing himself into my ass.

There was no pre-stretching, no lube, no preparation of any kind. It hurt like hell. I wanted him to stop, and I told him so.
He didn't stop.
I tried to maneuver myself over so I could look him in the face as I told him to stop; then he would have to stop. He grabbed onto me, onto my hips.
I started to struggle and yell. He didn't stop.
I started to scream and cry; scream because I couldn't believe this was happening, and cry because it hurt so fucking much. He still didn't stop.
Finally I was screaming so loudly, I got the attention of some guys outside in the hall. They started knocking on the door, asking why they could hear female-sounding screaming within—curfew was over, didn't he know?
The knocking distracted Slink just enough that he loosened his grip on my body, and I quickly wrangled myself away. In the time it took Slink to offer some kind of response to the guys outside, I put on my shirt and skirt—my bra was left behind, I never saw it again—grabbed my shoes, and swung open the door.
There was a small group standing there. They paused, and stared down at me in surprise. I bowed my head low, and kept it there as best I could so they wouldn't see my face.
I ran out of the building barefoot. I put my shoes on only when I was halfway to my own dorm building, and I could feel the gravel cutting into my feet.

I was afraid to tell anyone what had happened, because I didn't want to get into trouble: I was not supposed to have been in Slink's room after curfew. I was afraid if I told anyone at the school what had happened—what he had done to me—they might punish Slink, but they would punish me, too.
My fear was not unwarranted.
The next day, I did tell a counselor. In a very kind and motherly way, she told me that I didn't have to worry, that she would take care of things from there on out. She told me she would make sure I would not be punished for being in Slink's room after curfew—a favor she was doing me, she called this—even though that had been very wrong of me.
She made sure to remind me that this was why they had rules like curfew...that if I had just followed the rules, I could have prevented all this from happening. Prevented myself from getting hurt.
I could not argue with her.

Now, here's where we get back to the subject of this post. For many years, I never thought of myself as a "rape victim." I knew something bad had happened to me, yes; something terrible and wrong. But I never, not once, thought of it as rape.
I didn't think of it as rape because—and please, don't roll your eyes at me, okay?—since Slink never actually finished doing the deed, since he didn't get to come inside me, then it wasn't actually a case of rape. It was...something else. Something horrible, yes, but not rape.
The word "rape" never entered my mind.

It wasn't until a whole lot of years later, reading some article in a news magazine about another rape case, that I realized what Slink had done to me was rape, that he didn't have to finish inside me for it to still be rape—the fact that he entered my body under those conditions, knowing full well he did not have my consent, made it rape.

Suddenly realizing it was rape did not change anything. Or maybe it did, a little; putting memories in different contexts always changes them to some extent. But it didn't change the effect of what that night had on me.
That was done.

You might think I was stupid for thinking if a guy doesn't actually finish, orgasm, inside a woman's body, that it's not really rape.
I probably was. But there are a lot of reasons why women might not think what was done to them was rape:

• Maybe the guy was really a nice person who would never do that, so it's not really rape.
• Maybe they had sex with the guy before, so clearly the guy had carte blanche right to have sex with them again, so it's not really rape.
• Maybe they were giving mixed-signals, so it's not really rape.
• Maybe the guy was their boyfriend, lover, or spouse, so it's not really rape.
• Maybe there was something else they could've done, some way they could have made their objections clearer, so it's not really rape.

•Maybe the rape was partly their fault, so it was not really rape.

So. Hi. I'm Shelby, and I was, once upon a time, a rape victim who didn't know she was raped.

One of the big reasons why I was loathe to post about this is because I don't want this to change the way people think of me. I don't want pity, and I certainly don't want this to be the thing that somehow humanizes me in anyone's eyes. I was not the proverbial Rape Victim; I wasn't then, and I'm not going to become one now. I went through a lot worse than what that rape did to me, believe me; both before that night, and after. Take that as you will.

But I will say this: I did not deserve to be raped.
I liked going out with the Bad Boys. That does not mean I deserved to be raped.
I was in his room after curfew. That does not mean I deserved to be raped.
I made stupid decisions. That does not mean I deserved to be raped.

I learned from my bad decisions. I learned the hard way.
Maybe some people out there who read this post will learn from my mistakes, and save themselves from making a few of their own. "A smart person learns from their mistakes; a wise person learns from other people's mistakes."
I can hope so.

Kinky Sheep Orgy Gone Wrong!

My mother has a lot of figurine collections. Here are members of her sheep figurine collection, all lined up, waiting for me to climb back into bed.

 "I thought they'd be adorable," my mother said.
"They are waiting to kill me in my sleep," I said.
It turned out, the sheep were more kinky than I thought.

A few minutes later, a sheep orgy was in full baaa and swing, and everyone had reason to smile.

Top Sheep was very popular—mainly because of his size, I think.

Uh oh: things have gone wrong. Bottom sheep has now cried "CONSENT VIOLATION!"
She's off in the corner crying with her friend, while her boyfriend (they're polysheep of course) has words with Top Sheep.

Things are escalating...Top Sheep is trying to apologize to bottom sheep, but she's having none of it. Her friend is yelling at Top Sheep STOP BEING SO PUSHY LEAVE HER ALONE while others look on.

Now they're all trying to talk it out, but what they fail to notice is that the quiet onlooker to this whole scene is now writing up a post on Fetlife about everything....

Breaking news: the bottom sheep's friend has now taken Top Sheep's side in the fight, Top Sheep and two-faced ex-friend are now a couple, and the onlooker is happy because his post lamenting all the "drama" is now on K&P.

Wow. Sheep live more interesting lives than I thought.
(I think I need help.)

Updates (and Bombs)

Dear Readers,
It is with great excitement that I share the news: my latest book is now out!

It is a stand-alone book, the second one in my "Erotic Fairy Tale" series. You can read sample chapters on AMAZON or BARNES&NOBLE.

My other news is not so exciting. I tried updating my blog last week—including all my pages—and I ended up inadvertently planting bombs instead, killing a lot of my design and blog photos. I fixed what I could, and everything should be fine from here on out, but many of my previous entry photos are now kaput.
Bah. Bah and grr.

I'm traveling again this week (this summer is the "Summer of Travel," it feels like); when I get back, it'll be time to start outlining my next book.

I'll be visiting family while I'm away. You can look forward to blog posts about my religiously-conservative, ANTI-kink family.
Bah. Bah and grr.

Why I Won't Engage With Those Who Have An Anger Management Problem

Because I spent the first eighteen years of my life with such a person, and see no reason to put up with that bullshit anymore, not for one fucking minute.

Look, I know it's often hard, sometimes impossible, to control one's emotions. I know. But there is a difference between losing control of one's sadness, or frustration, or even happiness, and losing control of one's rage. 

Adults in general should be able to control their rage. You get angry? That's normal. You show your anger by going around punching walls, screaming and yelling, and having temper tantrums? That's a problem.
And let me be clear: that's your problem, no one else's.

And yeah, when it comes to kink, there's a double standard here between subs and Doms. Indulging in a display of rage now and again, especially under extreme circumstances, by a sub is more easily forgiven than when the same actions are taken by a Dom.

There's a reason for this: Doms are supposed to be the ones in control. In control of their sub(s), in control of their D/s relationship(s), in control of their lives. If they cannot control themselves, they cannot control anyone else, and should not be entrusted to do so.

I witnessed Husband give into a moment of rage twenty years ago—once. The action was trivial, and not directed at me. But I told him if he ever scared me like that again, we were done, over, finis. 
And he never has.

Emotions are a part of being a human being. There's no way to shut them off. But mastering them, at least to a point where you're not scaring the people around you, is a vital step of maturity.

I get the feeling that some people see no reason to control their rage.
Some people actually get off on their rage. They like scaring people. They like the attention they get, the fear they see in someone else's eyes. They say they have no control...but they do. The truth is, their rage gives them more control, because they have an excuse to act like assholes.
I didn't mean to lose control. 
I just got so angry. 

Fuck that. I don't put up with that bullshit in my life, not anymore.

I can take a lot of emotion thrown at me. I can handle anger, sadness, regret...even hate. I can handle tears. It's hard, because more often than not, when my friends come to me crying, I end up crying with them. But I will do my best to offer them an ear, and help them shoulder their pain.

What I cannot handle are acts of violence borne out of rage—no matter how small. I won't call this a trigger, but I will term it a "trauma button," and anyone who presses this button will see me walk away.

I didn't mean to lose control.
I just got so angry. 

That's too bad.
No, I'm not mad.
I'm just done.

A String of Broken Stars

"You want me to be a tragic backdrop so you can appear to be illuminated, so that people can say 'wow, isn't he so terribly brave to love a girl who is so obviously sad?' You think I'll be the dark sky so you can be the star? I'll swallow you whole."— Warsan Shire

One of my favorite relatives of all time was my Uncle D. Uncle D was not really my uncle—he was my father's uncle, which would make him my great uncle. But back in the day, Uncle D was one of those people who always seemed to be "walking awesome." He had the best stories to tell, and he knew how to tell them well; he could keep his audience captivated for hours on the edge of their seats. He was well traveled, and had done a lot, but more than that, things always seemed to be happening to him—things that (usually) ended up having a happy ending, or at least a riveting one.

He was a good-natured guy, and was always volunteering for his synagogue and other charity groups. He often took the jobs no one else wanted and somehow, turned them into the funnest jobs in the world.

I remember watching a video of him one time of him playing the lead part in his synagogue's play. He had taken the leading lady's part, because nobody else had stepped up. The whole video had him wearing a dress and a wig, dancing around the stage like Peter Pan. You could hear the audience roaring with laughter in the background.

The thing about Uncle D was that he wasn't very good at relationships. I believe he was married four times—it might've been more, I don't know. (In my family, a marriage that lasted less than a year wasn't a "real" marriage, wasn't anything more than an embarrassment, and was best swept under the rug.) Every one of his breakups and divorces had been bad, filled with drama and horror.

Of course, since it was Uncle D telling us the stories of these breakups, he was always the Good Guy, and the exes were always the Crazies.

When I was little, I took his stories at face value. Of course Uncle D was a good partner; of course his exes were to blame for whatever had gone wrong. Uncle D was Walking Awesome. How could anyone not want that in a partner?

And yet...and yet, he broke up with all his girlfriends and divorced every woman he married, and not one of those divorces was amicable. They were messy, courtroom affairs, with stories of shouting matches in restaurants and TVs landing on sidewalks, dishes broken and police called.
All his exes seemed to wind up being Closet Crazy Women.

They didn't start out that way. They started out as nice women.
He couldn't say enough nice things about them, in fact. Every time we heard from him, the conversation would inevitably turn to how amazing the woman in his life was. It was sweet how he spoke about them; it certainly made him seem more endearing.
But eventually—sometimes it took months, and sometimes it took years—but always, the women turned into harpies and shrews, and Uncle D was left wondering what the fuck had happened.

The last time I went over to Uncle D's house, it was a short while after he married his latest wife, J. I had never met J before, but of course, I had heard great things about her; how caring she was, how soft spoken and gracious.
I went to visit him with my father, who keeps kosher. Uncle D knew this, and he asked J to plan the meal accordingly.

J bought my father a kosher dinner meal. She made sure to keep it double wrapped in the oven, as one is supposed to do, made sure to serve it to him still closed, so he could see she had not touched it, and gave it to him with plastic utensils, since hers were off limits.
The meal was great, with J serving and Uncle D regaling us with more stories that had us laughing off our asses.
Then J brought in dessert. My father immediately saw that the dessert, while kosher, was also dairy. Since my father had eaten meat during the meal, he could not eat the dessert—and politely told J and Uncle D the reason why he had to decline.

Uncle D started scolding J in a way I had never seen before. He turned to her and asked her what she was thinking, how could she not have known. She replied—softly—that she'd forgotten, and made a mistake. Uncle D continued to berate her in front of us, apologizing to my father for J's stupidity, telling him he should have seen to the matter himself instead of trusting her, and all the while, shaking his head at J like she was no more than an errant child.
Finally, J snapped.
"It was a mistake, OKAY?" She said. "I forgot, now can you please just LET IT GO."
Uncle D stared at her in amazement. An uncomfortable silence blanketed the room. Finally, Uncle D moved the topic of conversation onto something else...but the rest of the visit didn't seem so fun anymore.

Years later, I reminded my mother of what had happened that day. She just shook her head and sighed.
"It's amazing to me how Uncle D can take all these nice, wonderful women, and turn them into something so different," she said. "Living with him must be very hard."
I had never thought of it like that before, but immediately I realized the wisdom of her words.

Uncle D's ladies were not somehow hiding their crazy—or if they were, they were hiding the same crazy we all have, each and every one of us, when pushed hard enough. They had been fine, lovely women when he had met them.
It was Uncle D who had twisted these women around.

He had berated them, mocked them, made them think they were stupid, made them think he was doing them a favor by staying with them for as long as he did. They constantly had to walk on eggshells around him, always second guessing their words, always wondering how he would take what they said and how he would react in kind.
No woman can live like that forever—not without turning into a bitter, cynical fishwife.

Uncle D wasn't bad at picking women. But he was very good at picking the right women, and then turning them into exactly the type of women he couldn't stand.
I think there a lot of men like this out there.

These day I start to grow suspicious when I hear some guy's tale of woe  about how ALL his exes turned out to be crazy, how he's had such "bad luck" finding "good women."
All I want to say to him is, Dude, maybe it's not all your exes. Maybe it's YOU. 

They won't hear it of course. It sounds good to say "My wife/girlfriend/Significant Other pretended to be so nice, but once we were well established, man, did she become a total bitch, I put up with her for theees looong cause I'm such an awesome guy, but I just couldn't take it anymore and I decided I had to move on, and that's why I'm single."

That sounds a hell of a lot better than "I acted the great guy until I got my woman well established and man, once I had her in my grips I totally treated her like shit and made her think she was so worthless not another guy would have her and she was lucky to have me. She didn't put up with my crap for very long though, the bitch."
...Yeah, I've never heard a guy own up to this truth.

I'm not saying every guy out there with more than one "horrible ex" story is like this. Some people really do have bad luck.

I guess what I'm saying is...you can never really know what a person is like in a romantic relationship based on how good a friend they are, or even how good a person they are.
Some people are just very good at bad breakups.

OWN IT

Rule of thumb: 
If you're about to do something you know would shame you if it ever got out? DON'T FUCKING DO IT. 
If you're about to say something you know would make you look like a piece of turd if people knew? DON'T FUCKING SAY IT. 

It's that simple, people. Don't do stuff you know makes you look like shit. Don't say stuff you know makes you sound like shit. 

Don't think the stuff you do and say is going to be swept under a rock, hidden away forever more. Because you don't know when the truth is going to come out—

or if—

But if it does, you will have no one to blame other than yourself for looking like an asshole. 

Not the person who called you out on your bad behavior. Not the people who turn away in disgust. 

You. 

None of us are perfect. All of us say and do things we end up regretting, sometimes badly. When that happens, all we can do is apologize, try to make amends, and move on. 

What we shouldn't do is attack the people who are pointing out to us our bad behavior. If you know you've fucked up, if you know you've behaved badly? OWN IT. 

Owning does not mean deflecting, or rationalizing, or victim-blaming, or gaslighting. OWNING means being able to admit, "I fucked up, I should not have done that, that was a mistake on my part, I am sorry." 

PERIOD. 

The Absence of Love Is Not Evil

Cats and Roosters, it's time to get personal. I'm going to take you on a walk down memory lane.

Husband was not my first love. That title—and dubious award—goes to another boy. 

He I went to the same high school. He was one year older than me, almost to the day. From here on out, I'm going to call him "Jack," because while was not particularly tall, or well-built, or good looking, he had this Jack Nicholson quality to him—this incredible high-volt energy of dangerous boyish charm, this seductive charisma, a magnetism that just pulled everyone right in. When Jack smiled, his eyes would gleam with rascality, begging you to come play with him, join him in his revelry. 

Join in, because he was lonely. 

I fell hard for Jack. I felt his pull, felt the allure of his spirit; but I also saw, deep down, how lost and lonely he was. It didn't make his effervescent nature any less beguiling—in fact, the exact opposite. It made it more tragic, and therefore, more appealing; because nothing is more appealing to a teenager's heart than veiled, poignant tragedy. 

We became friends. Very quickly we realized that we had the same tastes: we liked the same music, watched the same movies...but most importantly, we felt moved by the same things. The universe was filled with secrets and wonder, and we were kindred souls, able to feel the awe, see what others could not, and sense what others missed.

We would hang out together after school, sometimes. But our schooldays were long, and there was homework to get done, and he always seemed to have other things he had to do. Which was fine with me—I mean, I accepted that...even as I seemed to be the only one who felt the pain of our distance. 

We would talk on the phone, sometimes. He did most of the talking, and I did most of the listening, but I didn't care—I loved listening to his voice, his inflections, the way he would speed up when he got excited and trail off when his heart grew too fraught with emotion. 

Jack didn't laugh, he chortled. It was the most captivating sound I'd ever heard. To this day, I can still hear it, and the memory makes me smile. 

We would go places together, sometimes. But I never knew when, or if, Jack would show up or not; he often had things "come up" on him that he forgot about. And he had a bad habit of letting the time run away from him, hours and hours ahead. 

I would always wait, no matter how late he was, and I was always giddy to see him. I despaired when he didn't show up at all, but I would forgive him, each and every time.

I couldn't imagine myself thinking about, or caring about, anyone else—not the way I cared about Jack. 

But Jack did not feel the same way about me. He would meet other girls, become infatuated with them, and all of a sudden, they would be "going out." 

Every time this happened, I would congratulate Jack on his new relationship. But secretly, I would congratulate myself for being so "rational" about the whole thing...because even as I listened to Jack gush on (and on) about this or that new girl in his life, I knew their relationship was doomed. 

After all, I was the one who understood him, I was the one who could intuitively feel his mercurial moods, I was the one who took his phone calls at two o'clock in the morning to listen to his innermost thoughts.

And the thing was, I was proven right, every time: he would be spellbound by this new girl for a while...but within a few weeks, the spell would wear off, and he would be calling me again, this time to comfort and console. 

Because he was lonely. 

And I would be at his side once more. 

I thought I was in love. 

Only it was not love. 

This is what took me a long time to finally grasp. And it did not come in a a great epiphany, or a sudden realization...it was a slow understanding, the kind that can only be felt slowly, because it is a sundering of the heart, and a sundering of that magnitude takes time to be felt to completion. 

This wasn't love...I was addicted to this boy. I was so engrossed in my feelings for him, I failed to realized how afflicted I was, tormented by his erratic melancholy and wiling volatility. I thought he'd be my cure:

A cure to my own loneliness. 

Because I was lonely. 

But he wasn't my pill. He was my poison. 

Things spiraled out in a sudden tornado of drama as they so often do, and I told him never to call me again. 

And he did not. 

We became strangers in the hallways, seeing each other without really seeing. We were each others' ghosts, only everyone else could see us—we just could not see each other. 

I hated him for that, hated him for honoring my wishes and never calling me again. Because I didn't really want him to stop calling me; I wanted him to call me and beg for me to come back to him, I wanted him to tell me he was wrong to take me so much for granted, I wanted to hear him say he finally understood what he'd had in front of him all along...that he loved me the way I loved him. 

But that call never came. 

I learned then that sometimes closure is not brought on with actions or words, not even a look; sometimes closure is the final breath taken, and held, before silence.

And now I finally bring you to the point of my long soliloquy about this boy, Jack.

Jack was not a "douchebag." He was not an asshole, or a weasel, or even a manipulative liar. (I don't think he could've lied if he tried; he didn't have the eyes, or heart, for it.) 

He was not trying to lead me on, and he certainly had not meant to break my heart. 

Throughout our friendship, Jack had given me all he could. 

But it was not as much as I wanted. And it was certainly not as much as I was willing—no, craving—to give him. 

And in the end, it was I who was done settling for anything less. 

This did not, and does not, make Jack an evil person. What it does is make him human. 

It took me a long time to understand that; to understand that the sundering of a human heart can be done without malice and still be just as destructive. One can be angry (horribly, bitterly angry) at a situation, and yet still come to understand that there is no blame to be had—or if there is, the blame must be shared. 

The end of my friendship with Jack had been unavoidable all along. 

Looking back, I think...I think there were times he had tried to tell me that. 

And it had grieved him to hurt me. It took me a long time to realize that, too. I didn't want to. It was easier to just hate him.

A cataclysmic break like that, done without ill will, lingers with a sort of savage irony. 

I did get over him, eventually. I went on to have other boyfriends—men who were farther along on their own evolutionary path, men who helped me walk further along on mine...men who wanted to call themselves my boyfriend, and have me call them that, too. 

Men who were not so lonely in their own company. 

And I forgave Jack for the pain he had caused me. That last remnant of spite finally left the day I realized the real reason why I'd been angry at him for so long: I was mad at him for not loving me. But you can't be angry at someone for not loving you. All you can do is accept it, and move on. 

No one owes us love. Civility is expected, Respect is earned...but love is a precious gift, one not to be squandered—

And hopefully, never regretted. 

50 Shades of Grey: Your Options

If you choose to see the movie:

• See the movie with a group of fellow kinksters, but discreetly, because you don't want to scare the vanillas, GOD FORBID THEY KNOW WE'RE KINKY JUST LIKE THAT MR. GREY GUY, that stuff only exists in movies, it's not real.
• See the movie with a group of kinksters in full kink uniform because WE'RE KINKY, WE'RE NOT STINKY, ASK US ABOUT STUFF! WE'RE NOT THAT TOUGH (unless you give consent. Then all bets are off). 
• See the movie by yourself, but not tell anyone. Deny, deny, deny! 

Once you see the movie:

• Tell everyone how you only went to see the movie because you felt obligated, but you didn't really want to, and it was crap.
• Tell everyone why the movie does not in any way represent "the lifestyle." Because all our relationships are fucking perfect, just like in that secretary movie. 
• Tell everyone to just read the plot on wikipedia and save their money that way.
• Fail to mention how the sex scenes totally turned you on. You were jerking off in the darkness of your own theater seat, but nobody needs to know that.

Once you're back to life:

• Tell everyone proudly how you saw the movie, using the same tone you'd use to tell them you got a nasty splinter out of your thumb. 
• Buy a "I SAW THE FIFTY SHADES MOVIE AND I HATED IT" t-shirt. 
• Go home and obsessively watch pirated scenes from the movie off of youtube...especially the sex scenes. Mmm, movie sex. Not better than the real thing, but you're probably not getting the real thing, so it'll do.

If you choose NOT to see the movie:

Congrats. I hear American Sniper is good, and has absolutely no controversy surrounding it. 

There IS Fetlife Drama, and It DOES Have a Victim (Cross-posted from Fetlife)

Stay away from Fetlife drama.
That seems to be the rule these days.
You see a post that's a little too abrasive with the finger pointing? Stay away from it! You see a post that's a little too specific with the calling out of improper behavior from a certain individual? Stay away from it! You see a post that's a little too familiar to the people you know in your local community? Stay away from it!

I've written at length about my feelings on the word "drama," and how we use it far too much to describe—and dismiss—issues and events we should be taking far more seriously in the scene.
But let's face it. Sometimes, there is drama on Fetlife. The posts I'm talking about are the ones which are not there to help anyone, not there to improve anything, they're there so someone can feel better for ranting and raging and kicking up a whole lot of dirt, for no other reason than to assuage their own misery.

And yeah, sure, a lot of people call that "looking for support." There's nothing wrong with coming here looking for support. Your friends want to be there for you.
But let me tell you a little eensie-beensie fact about trying to find support on Fetlife: if your appeal is not 100% sincere and 100% genuine? After a while, it willcome back to bite you in the ass. It may take a while, but it will happen. People will reread that post of yours, and realize you're not trying to prop yourself up, you're trying to punch someone else down, because they dared to piss you off somehow.
That's drama.

Some of us have been here long enough to recognize it mighty quick. But then...then there's the aftermath.
People start judging everyone involved over the "drama". They start painting everybody with the same brush.
Both exes of a now non-couple, where one is talking shit about the other? They're now both causing drama. Everyone involved in a dispute? They're allcausing drama. Hell, an entire group of friends may now be flung and marinated with the dreaded drama sauce—because one or two of them are spreading around the evil drama.
"I'm staying away from those people, they're causing drama." "That couple with the drama, they need to learn." "Why can't that group stop it with the drama?"

Take a better look, people. Take a better look, and ask yourself: Who is the one causing the drama? Is it the person who is trying to get over that bad break up, the people who are trying to solve a conflict privately, the ones who are following some kind of rules of engagement to get the matter settled as quickly as possible for the betterment of the community?
Or is it those who are plastering that shit all over Fetlife with their posts?

I read these posts, and I feel like I'm back in high school. So-and-so has to tell me their side of the "story" before the other person can get to me, so I believe them first.
(As an aside, does this actually work with some people?...What am I saying...of course it works, because some of us have never left high school mentality. If this is you, stop it. Please.)

Here's the thing: people who are affected by this drama typically have very little recourse other than to suffer through it. They cannot control the people who are kicking up shit—no one can really control the behavior of others, only their own—so they keep their heads down and ignore it as much as possible.
And yet, they are marinated in the drama sauce, with no control over the outcome.

Drama is treated like a game around here, which is a sad fact in and of itself. It's a spectator sport.
There's often two sides: The cause...and the casualty.
Look what's going on. Listen to who's saying what, who's writing what...and who's trying their best to rise above. Don't make assumptions about the silent party.
You may just realize later, you were wrong.
And remember, nobody is immune from the drama game. You may just find your number called up next, whether you like it or not, and let me tell you, those exits off the field are hard to find.

I'll Take the Pity

Most of my friends are already aware of what I'm about to say. However, do to recent events, I thought I'd make the information more public, and put it in a post.

I suffer from drivers anxiety. 

What this means is that I don't just dislike driving, I experience actual distress and dread as I drive, no matter where I go. 

Most of the time, when I'm driving to or from somewhere familiar, I'm able to keep the anxiety level really low. I turn on the radio or my music, and I relax. It gets harder when I hit traffic, or there's an accident in front of me. But I deal. 

I keep my driving radius pretty small, and I avoid highways whenever possible. I'm usually willing to make my driving time up to a 50% longer if I can avoid highways. Highway 85 is bit easier for me, because there's a long stretch where trucks are prohibited. But the 101? That's really hard for me. 

The people in my life know about my anxiety. It doesn't just hit me when I'm the one who's driving; I get nervous whenever I'm in a driving car. Sometimes they use my anxiety against me, to create impromptu scenes—like that night I got so scared in the backseat of the car, I had to put a blanket over my head. (Yes, hilarity ensued, and pictures were taken.)

Sometimes, my anxiety drives the people in my life crazy. And I'm sorry for that. 

For the past year or so, I've been able to attend more events in other cities, because Mistress Vicki and I have come to a mutually beneficial arrangement where she drives my car to and from events. But that is not always possible. 

I have missed events I desperately wanted to go to, because I could not figure out a way to get there (or home), and I was too ashamed to admit I couldn't just drive myself. 

I'm sorry for that, too. 

I'm asking for some compassion here. Yes, I realize it's ridiculous that a 39 (almost 40) year old woman is afraid to drive. Go ahead and laugh; I know it's pathetic. If all you can offer me is pity, then offer me that. 

But please don't think I don't want to see my friends, or that I don't care, or that I'm just not bothering to make time. Believe me, if I could just get in the car and drive for an hour (or more) to see you guys, I would. But I can't. 

I'm sorry. I'll take the pity—and the contempt that always comes along with it—but please try to understand. 

The Axe (Dealing with Depression)

I will likely delete this quickly.

I, like many people, have issues with depression.

It seems so cliche these days to say you "suffer from depression"; everybody and their grandmother "suffers from depression."

(I will never forget the time I walked into a new doctor's office, told him I had been feeling "down," let it slip I'm Jewish, and his response was, "Oh, you're Jewish? Jews are a depressed people. Here's a prescription for anti-depressants. Bye bye."
But that is a different story.)

I will not get into the causes of my depression, as for one, I think they are irrelevant, and two, they are too private to share.
(Or maybe I'm just romanticizing my own pain. I don't know. Americans have a bad habit of doing that, I've noticed, and I'm no special snowflake.)
But I will tell you what often helps me, because maybe, it'll help a few of you too. I know I'm not the only one suffering lately. A lot of my friends have been feeling down.
If nothing else, a couple of you may get a laugh.

When I get too downtrodden to keep going—when I get too depressed to do the "everyday functioning" stuff—I ask myself:
"If a guy were chasing me down with an axe, about to kill me if I didn't get this shit done, THEN would I do it?"
Invariably, the answer is yes.
So I do it.
This line of logic basically reminds me it's not that I can't do this stuff. It's that the depression is trying make me think I can't do it, make me believe a lie—because that's what depression does.

There used to be dark days when my answer to the question would have been, "No, I still can't do this shit."

There were even darker days (and this was o so long ago, but I still remember them keenly) when I would have greeted the axe with the open arms of a long lost lover, and tilted my head for the kiss of the blade.

Those days are long gone, thank God. I have ways to function, ways to remind myself I am capable of doing the things I need to do to be a wife, mother, sister, daughter, pet, and (to the best I can be) friend.
I can function, even when a part of me doesn't want to.
The depression does sometimes feel like a dark cloud, and I'm working in a fog here, but I can work blind.
And soon, the cloud will lift. It always does.

To my friends feeling sad: I don't know why so many of us are feeling like this. Maybe it's because of all the sad stuff on the news. I've heard from more than one source it's because of the "Super Moon" we just had; I don't know.
I do know a new season is upon us. It's time for a change.
Let's make it a change for the better.

My Story of Ultimate Humiliation

The Story of My Ultimate Humiliation
The other day, my friend d (yes we all call her d, with a lowercase d, because d is a slave and that is how she refers to herself) was not feeling well, and I was trying to think of ways to cheer her up.
Now it just so happened that the night before, her Master, the MotherfuckingSadist™, had made ominous threats online to turn my tits purple. (Why, I have no idea; it's not like I did anything to deserve such monstrous treatment of my delicate breasts.) When I told Husband about the online threats (and what I did to deserve them, which was nothing, I swear) the whole thing prompted Husband to break out into prose...if you can call it that. It went something like this:
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Your tits will be purple...
Then he stopped.
"What comes next?" I asked.
"I don't know how it's supposed to go," he growled at me. "Go look it up yourself."

Now, the other bit of backdrop to this story is that my second-to-oldest son was on a trip at the time, having the vacation of his life with his friend and his friend's mom. His friend's mom and I are also friends. She knows I'm kinky, but not to what extent, if you get my meaning.

So I send d a text version of the poem Husband gave me...only I didn't send it to d. I sent it to Son. And this is what happened.

 As you can see, I realized I had made a mistake as soon as I sent it. But as they say—too little, too late. My pleas for him to delete it fell on deaf ears...

And his version of "entertainment" began.

Of course, he had to fucking promise to show his friend, his friend's mom, and every other person under the fucking sun. 

I tried to lay down my own threats...to no avail. He knows me too well.

There was nothing I could do anymore, nothing but wish myself a hole to crawl into.

Son was not very sympathetic.

I have horrible children.
They take after their father.

Kink Brings Us Together, But It Cannot Sustain Us

I often talk about how my kids act as cockblockers for Husband and I, often with incredibly frustrating (but hysterical) results. They curb our kink to an amazing degree.

I don't usually talk about how this can be a good thing.

When we have kinky friends over, we can't talk about kink in front of the kids. Munches, dungeons, so-and-so's-latest-picture-on-Fetlife, all of that's off the table. We are forced to contain our conversation to vanilla topics, things that are safe to talk about in front of minors.

And you know what? This is a good thing. It forces us to talk about our day-to-day lives, our thoughts on other subjects, how our families are doing, how we are. We delve into topics much more intimate and personal.

Our lives are not made up of kink. Kink is what we do, it is not who we are. "The scene" brings us together as Kinksters, but we are all of us so much more than that.

By taking the entire subject of kink off the table, we are forced to reveal other aspects of ourselves to our friends...and that is a good thing, because real friendship cannot exist solely on kink. There has to be more there.

Book of the Month: Training Ella

Dear Readers,
This month one of my books, Inside the Hotel Bentmoore: Training Ella, is Goodread's BDSM group's book of the month. I am very pleased and proud to say the least.

If you want to follow along in the discussion over at Goodreads, you have to join the group. You can get to the group by clicking here. Then you ask to join in.

Please consider joining the group—and please consider buying my book! The Amazon link is here, and the Barnes and Noble link is here. 

And happy reading!

A Commentary to the Comments I Got

Recently on Fetlife I put up a post titled "A List of 'Men's Rights' Issues That Feminism Is Already Working On." 
Now, let me be clear: I did not write the post. I stated that from the beginning. It turns out, the piece I saw (which, incidentally, I found on tumblr), was only a  piece of a much larger article, one that was originally published in the Jezebel, and written by Lindy West.  I invite you to read the whole article. In my opinion, it's great.

A group on Fetlife who called themselves the "Anti-Feminist League" found my post...and let's just say, they had a field day.  They got on their moral soapboxes. They took over the comments section—to let us women know why men really are superior! 
Here's the thing: I have a general policy that I don't delete comments on my posts, not one, no matter how ridiculous or hateful.
A bunch of people asked me why I don't delete comments. My reasoning is simple: I don't want anyone to be silenced. On the contrary, I want people's views to be available for all to see. I want everyone to be able to read how spiteful, disgusting, snide, contemptuous, manipulative, and whiny people really are. I want to expose their true natures to everyone who cares to have a look. 

They came. Oh, how they came. They worked themselves into a dither. As the comments degenerated, the statements  got more and more wild. 

First, there were the claims there's no such thing as patriarchy.
"I've never seen the patriarchy. It died with most of our great-grandparents. What we have is outdated beliefs that were inspired by the patriarchy, which no longer exists." I guess if you can't see something, it must not be there...kinda like how my eight year old thinks about the chocolate milk hiding in the fridge.

Then came the rants of how evil feminism is. 
"Feminism is a destroyer of families, children, marriage and women. Feminists only care about themselves and not the 'rights of men'."
"Feminists are angry, man hating lesbians or stupid women that can't think for themselves."
"Feminists think they need to rule the world. Just... stop it."
"Feminism had its place and served our world a great purpose. And now it needs to get back in the kitchen."
Oh, and my favorite:
"Feminists want men to lose everything, not just the children. If not laws wouldn't have been made to make men get raped by alimony and child support."
That's right: men are being raped by alimony and child support. How dare women expect men to pay for their children! It's exactly like getting raped! 

There were a few comments about how society doesn't need feminism anyway, because it's not really necessary. 
"Women these days are practically untouchable legally and socially, so one needs to advocate for men if one wants to fight for actual equality right now." You hear that? Women are untouchable! It's the men being raped and oppressed by society! What with all the child support bullshit and stuff!
"You're making women look like victims, not helping make things equal for everyone." Because pointing out how women are victims of sexism makes them look like victims...oh wait, that's the point. They are victims of sexism and genderism. Oh, I forgot, no they're not, they're untouchable. 

But even if women are the victims, it's their own fault., and no one else's.  They should take personal responsibility for what happens to them. 

"There was a post regarding a date rape drug in the previous comments. First of all, I hope your friend is fine. But the extremely rational side of me is asking this question. What on earth happened to personal responsibility, and going out with your friends to reduce the odds of bad things occurring?"

Women should own the fact that they are responsible for their own assaults and rapes. If they can't watch their own damn drinks, they deserve what they get, right? Also, they probably dress provocatively, too. 

So what can we do about these pesky women who just don't get it? What we need is for women to understand they are inherently different, and therefore deserve to be treated like the inferior creatures they are.
"For the first fact. Women ARE naturally better caregivers. This isn't from some sort of 'patriarchy' bullshit you claim, but by millions of years of evolution in our animal kingdom." 
That whole equality in the workplace thing? Women shouldn't be in the workplace, they should be home watching the children. 
"Men and women are inherently fundamentally different physically mentally and in social interaction. To deny this is to deny science and self evident truth." Self evident truth we can all watch in porn, I guess. Women expect to be treated like crap; it's in our natures.

The fact is, sexism is simply the way this country works. It's always been that way, and it's working, so why stop now?
"My rights are established by natural law, are self evident, and were best codified and defended by a bunch of men in the 18th century. Men have been defending our own rights for thousands of years. So all feminists can feel relieved that I don't need some self described "woman" to do what comes natural to me. Feminists just want to remove the yoke of one burden and add much more in the form of their big brother quasi communist agenda where all men are forced to act like females and where society enslaves them to the collective "good". Feminists are here to enslave men if not in chains but in bondage of societal rules and structures that almost no true man wants."
That's right, feminism is not just about rape, it's about slavery now, too. Kinda like what all those men in the 18th century believed in for their own rising wealth and power...oh wait, that right stopped being defended in 1865.

Apparently—and I did not know this, I thank the commentators for educating me—many if not most of the ills of society can be blamed on feminism. Like, the national suicide rate!
"The suicide differential has almost doubled since the 70s, from 1.9 to 3.5. If that isn't evidence that our society is becoming more and more anti-male, I don't know what is."
That annoying correlation does not equal causation rule? That's a fallacy. We'll ignore that.
And anyway, if it's not suicide, it's something else killing men; feminism can be blamed for all of it. "Young men are still being pathologized. Men are still dying; on the job, in war, and by their own hand, same as ever."
Feminism can even be blamed—and HOW COULD I NOT KNOW THIS BEFORE?—for breast cancer! Yup, that's right!
"Breast cancer is now a 'business' making billions each year. If you think they are going to cure it even if they could you are crazy, to many people living off it already. I think this was started by GASP ...a woman!"
That's right: feminism is the cause of cancer.

I didn't respond the comments very much on the thread. I didn't see the point. Like I said, the commentators were doing a very good job making themselves out to look like moronic wackadoodles. 
But then...they tried to silence me. They had Fetlife take down my post. I had not gotten express, explicit permission from the original author to quote her post, you see. Technically, that is against Fetlife rules. Is it usually enforced? No. But that doesn't mean they don't reserve the right to enforce it when they deem necessary, and now, the anti-feminists had found a way to remove my post completely. It wasn't enough I was giving them a way to argue against them; they wanted me gone. 

Sorry, not so easy to do.

I got on twitter, tracked down the original author, Lindy West, and asked her permission to keep up the post. She gave me her approval.
(I also emailed the people over at Jezebel, and they gave me permission, too. But in the end, all I needed was Ms. West's okay.)
I contacted Fetlife, sent them a screenshot of Ms.West's tweet, and the post was back up.

It got more feedback and comments for another couple days. Then it died down, as posts on Fetlife typically do. 
I got some hate mail. I had some personal snide comments thrown my way. Nothing terrible; nothing I considered a direct threat. (Yeah, I've gotten those in the past, too, and entire posts and tweet rants vilifying me, as well. ) That stuff doesn't bother me, and for two reasons:
One, none of the asinine comments were made by people who actually know me. They were all made by strangers, people who exist in Netherland, who spew forth their hate-filled tirades behind the safety of their computer screens. It shocks me sometimes how these people think I actually give a fuck what they think. They don't know me; so why should I care?

The second reason is, in my opinion, more relevant, and more sad.
Nothing said in comment to any post on Fetlife is going to change a damn thing about anything. Whether it's a logical, reasonable, civil comment or not, whether it makes sense or not, whether everyone agrees with it or not, it's still just a fucking comment on a  Fetlife post. 

It's not going to change the fact that women get paid 77 cents on the dollar for every dollar a man makes.
It's not going to chaange the fact that after graduating college, on average, men make $7,600 more than women.
It's not going to change the fact that female workers made up just 6.2 percent of the top earning positions of 2010.
It's not going to change the fact that 60% of minimum wage workers are women, and almost 2/3rds of part-time workers are women.
It's not going to change the fact that 83% of sexual harassment charges come from women. 
It's not going to change the fact that only 15% of the entire U.S. Congress is made up of women.
It's not going to change the fact that about 1 in 3 women in the military say they were raped.
It's not going to change the fact that 75% of women who are raped or assaulted in our military do not report it.
It's not going to change the fact that courts are continuing to rule against women's rights in the workforce. 
It's not going to change the fact that women face gender bias in medical treatment and medical research.
It's not going to change the fact that people see what they want to see, hear what they want to hear, and believe what they want to believe. 

It's not going to change my life. No matter what any of these commenters said? I'm still going to be afraid walking around alone at night. I'm still going to ignore men who give me cat calls on the street. I'm still going to walk a little faster, and be a little more weary, around men who give me creepy stares. I'm still going to hang onto my drinks with the assumption if I look away for one minute, there's a chance it's spiked with drugs. 

I'm still going to trust people I've learned to trust, and be suspicious of those I have not. 

But if this experience has taught me anything, it's this: there are a lot of wackadoodles on Fetlife. They will attack you. They will try to silence you. They will bring in their friends to help them. 

They are still all wackadoodles.
Even wackadoodles can be entertaining, I guess, even if they remain irrelevant to how the rest of us live our lives. 

Sunday Bible Story: Don't Be That Person

Ok, cats and roosters, I'm about to get biblical.

NO, NOT IN THAT WAY. Stop looking at my blouse buttons.

The story in the bible goes like this: The people of Israel wanted a king; so God commanded his prophet, Samuel, to anoint Saul as King, the proverbial Chosen One.
For a while, Saul was a very good King. He was groovy with God.

But after a while, Saul began to fuck up. And it was not just little fuck ups, it was big fuck ups. 

God didn't like the big fuck ups, so he told Samuel he was done with Saul as King, and it was now David's turn to rule. 

So Saul went and anointed David as the new King of Israel.

Now here's the thing: Saul did not just up and stop being King. No, he was the guy with the power; he was not just going to give that up, not to anyone, certainly not this little shrimp called David. Fuck that. 

So for a while, David was the chosen King of Israel...but was not. He had no power. He had to hide for a while. He steered clear of Saul's wrath. David knew he was a wanted man, and the last thing he wanted to do was stir the pot, poke the beast, and start a possible war. He made himself scarce.

And he waited. 

Soon enough, a great battle was had, Saul was killed by his own sword, and David was officially made King over Israel.

There is a lesson to be learned here, my friends. There is an important moral story to be had by looking at what David did...or rather, what he did not do.

David, by all rights, was the true King of Israel the moment God said so. As soon as Samuel anointed him, David could have challenged Saul for the throne...and he would have won. God and the people were on his side, you see. David could have staged his own coup, and there wouldn't have been a damn thing Saul could have done about it.

So why didn't David do it? Why did he wait until the throne came to him by other means? 

Because he didn't want to throw a coup, and possibly start a civil war, that's why. He didn't want to start his reign as The King Who Killed the Last King. He didn't want his reign to start through evil means.

He didn't want to be that person. 

Sometimes, recognizing the distinction between what you have a right to do, and what is the right thing to do, is really fucking hard. But it's an important distinction to make if you don't want to be that person.

Don't be the person who behaves out of malice.

Don't be the person who plots vengeance. 

Don't be the person who does things or says things not to make your life better, but to make someone else's life worse. 

Don't be petty.

Don't be unworthy of your own person.

Rise above. Be a King.

And sometimes it's really fucking hard. Sometimes people will say things and do things that will hurt you so fucking much, all you want to do is hurt them back. You have the right to hurt them back, nobody would fault you...tit for tat, right?

But who does that make you?

What kind of person do you want to be?

I'm not saying passivity is always the way to go. David was far from a passive King; in fact, by the time he was done ruling, he had more bloodshed on his hands than the next few Kings combined.
But he always acted out of a sense of duty, to do what was right for his people, to keep his country safe and secure. His motives were always pure, or at least, as pure as he could make them...because he knew if he acted out of malice, or greed, or arrogance, God (or karma, whatever you want to call it) would be coming after him. 
And he was proven right.

It's an important lesson we can all learn: when action is required, let it be for justice, not revenge. Protect the innocent when necessary, but do so without wrath for the guilty; for what they deserve is only your pity.

Don't act out of anger. Don't confuse integrity with a simple desire to get even. Revenge is sometimes quick and easy, while justice can often come slowly...so fucking slowly.

As does forgiveness. 

It is hard. I know. It is so fucking hard sometimes to be that person.

But I think it's something worth striving for.

But dear God, it is hard.